Many dreams occur around 5:30 in the morning. Artists, artists, bless your neurotically sociable hearts. O artists, with your colored blocks like toddlers in a day care center, endeavoring to find the fit the manufacturers intended, and like toddlers, giving no thought to the manufacturers themselves. The elements of the symbolic order are yours to manipulate...on paper. The nuances of the consensus reality are at your fingertips...like keys on a computer keypad. Paper cut-outs of the letters of the alphabet, in primary colors, line the walls, strung around the room sequentially until Z meets A, thus closing the circuit, a self-perpetuating song which never ends. The teacher, a giant in your midst, a guardian on the threshold, strides with towering legs over your disproportionately large heads with bodies scrambling to catch up, providing ample opportunity for a well-developed acquaintanceship with pendular knees and ankles swinging from above, the adult head with its externalized grievousness disappearing into clouds. Barefoot child psychologists carry stone tablets down from the mountain's sacred summit. Many dreams occur around 5:30 in the morning. Many dreams are lost by about seven.